CHAPTER SEVEN: The First Fragment
Elara had started to soften a little toward Lazareth.
Maybe because she had no choice, or maybe because she felt relief after seeing someone else besides herself in this grand haunted mansion where she had no way to escape.
But this didn't mean she trusted him or anything else related to this mansion.
She let Lazareth hug her for a longer time.
It was clear Elara was still in shock from the aftereffects of falling down, feeling the bone-crushing pain but still being fine after opening her eyes.
After a few minutes, Elara managed to calm herself down. Not entirely, but enough to make it manageable. She found her eyelids growing heavy.
---
In Elara's bedroom
When Elara opened her eyes abruptly, like waking up from a nightmare, she found herself in her bed and not where she had been a moment ago. Lazareth had disappeared, as always.
Elara was still a little haunted by the pain, but she wasn't panicking like before. It was as if she were already used to it.
"Never again!"
Elara spat, dragging her hands through her hair, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.
"How the f— am I alive if I died? Huh? Make that make sense!"
But she only had a lot of questions and no one to answer them.
Elara sat on her bed, holding her head as she thought.
After being reminded of the events, Lazareth's words led her to a conclusion. Elara decided to find the truth herself.
Sitting around doing nothing wasn't going to work anymore. She didn't want to be stuck here forever. Otherwise, she thought she'd lose her mind with the mere idea of remaining trapped in this mansion.
"So where am I supposed to begin?" she said to herself. "Maybe I should finally explore this whole cursed mansion. Find some clues?"
She groaned, storming down the hall barefoot.
"I swear to God, I'm going to lose it if I wait any longer."
---
She decided to start with her usual route and then explore the places in the mansion she still hadn't discovered.
Elara stomped into the kitchen.
As the coffee brewed, she leaned against the counter, her eyes scanning the shelves.
"Funny," she murmured.
"No one's been here. No one to place deliveries. No outside contact. I can't even get a signal to scream for help..."
Her hand trailed along the spice rack.
Salt, sugar, ground coffee, and cinnamon.
"But everything's full. Every. Single. Day."
"Like I never touched a damn thing."
She opened the fridge.
Fresh milk. Again.
The butter hadn't melted. The fruits hadn't spoiled.
She sniffed the bread.
Still soft and delicious as usual.
"No mold, no flies, no rot. Even the food in this house is immortal."
While checking things out, she discovered even more strange details.
"Not just this. I can't dispose of anything belonging to this mansion. I can't get hurt, I can't get sick, and obviously I can't die. But that doesn't mean I won't feel any pain if I try."
These things didn't surprise Elara.
Instead, she whispered, half-laughing,
"At least thanks for the breakfast, haunted hellhole."
Her stomach growled.
"Ugh, I need energy first if I'm going to find more clues."
She poured herself some coffee, grabbed the chipped mug lazily, along with an egg and some bread, and shuffled back to her room—the only place that felt remotely her own.
And even that was a lie.
The fireplace was quiet.
The paintings were still.
The shadows weren't whispering, for once.
She sat on the worn velvet sofa, tucked her feet beneath herself, and looked into her coffee mug while eating a piece of bread.
Thinking.
"I did confirm a lot of things, but they're nothing special. I still don't know what Lazareth was trying to tell me. To find it myself? How am I supposed to search for it in this huge mansion?"
She sipped her coffee, bitter yet sweet, the taste making her feel alive again.
"If this is insanity, it's at least well-fed."
She was still zoned out when suddenly—
Everything started glitching.
Not visually, nor physically, but existentially.
---
The mug in her hand flickered—gone—then back.
"What the heck?" Elara looked around in surprise.
The room around her warped.
The curtains shifted in style.
The table turned darker, and the lighting became cold.
Then her limbs—her entire body—began moving on their own.
Her hands placed the coffee down neatly.
She stood up.
Eyes wide with terror.
"No, no, no—why did you do that—"
Her mouth moved as if possessed.
Not her.
Someone else wearing her skin.
She was looking at herself from a third-person perspective.
And then—
She wasn't in the room anymore.
---
The scenery changed.
The dull, gloomy walls became freshly painted.
The scent in the air turned old and metallic.
A sharp smell of blood flooded the room, making her nauseous.
Torchlights flickered.
Her dress was different, heavier, old-fashioned, blacker, laced with mourning.
She walked—her body did, against her will.
And standing before her was...
Lazareth.
Alive and well.
Not as a phantom, she is used to seeing, but as a vulnerable human.
Smiling as though he were seeing heaven.
"You came," he whispered. "I knew you would."
Elara's hand was shaking, and her heart was screaming.
She tried to stop herself—tried to turn away—
But her hand—the one in this memory—lifted a dagger from behind her back.
No.
No, no, no, no.
"I'm sorry. It'll be alright... Lazareth," she heard herself say in a trembling voice, as though trying to hold back tears.
Then she heard footsteps approaching from behind.
A man's voice screamed at Elara.
And without a second thought, she plunged the blade into Lazareth's chest.
"You promised," Lazareth said, stepping closer.
She opened her mouth to say something.
"I—"
The voices became mute.
---
The scene froze.
Everything shifted back.
She stepped back, eyes frozen in place, her body trembling with panicking.
Elara collapsed to her knees, screaming, as the illusion shattered into ash and time yanked her back to the present like a snapped string.
"I what?" Elara couldn't hear the rest of the sentence.
What had she been about to tell him?
"Did she kill him? Why did she do that?"
A flood of questions overwhelmed Elara's mind.
---
She gasped awake on the floor of her room.
Coffee had spilled all over the carpet.
The table was cracked.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her heart thundered in her chest.
"I killed him," she whispered.
"I... killed Lazareth."
And the worst part was that she could tell this horrible fragment of memory belonged to her.
It felt too real to belong to someone else.
The more she thought about it, the more nauseous she felt, her gut twisting violently as she vomited up the little breakfast she had managed to eat before all of this happened.
Was Elara the reason behind Lazareth's death?
---
To be continued….